Omakes for Collagen
by T0PH4T
Summary: Non-canon stories written for Collagen.
1. New Years

Standing at the edge of a balcony with no rails hundreds of feet above the ground with snowflakes falling and melting into my wine, I consider how New Year's Day is a pathetic and redundant sort of celebration.

People choose to use this day to mark a change in themselves. They think that by tying their decision to an arbitrary measure of time that it will be more likely to stick, an attempt to prop up weak self-control with tradition and liquor. Perhaps it worked at one point but now New Year's Resolutions are no more binding than promises made to dead men.

"Hey, Max," a robust, masculine voice calls from within the ballroom. "Come on in, it's freezing out there!" To many it would sound magnificent, the ideal voice, at once commanding and caring. Closer attention betrays the slight extension of the vowels, a flaw stemming from drink and familiarity. That, and practical experience informs that there is no ideal voice. Only the necessary one.

I smile, for once not having to fake it. "I'll be there in a moment, Victor." His name is a joke, one that increases his closeness with those who are in-the-know enough to get it. In the court he is the Fool, the only one who can mock and correct the King, so long as it remains in good taste.

I like him. More than my own blood at times.

I delay a moment longer, looking out over the city, to assure that I move only of my own volition, then re-enter the dining room, taking in the festivities.

Victor and Lucy chat happily, with Cassandra trying to strike up a conversation with Jessica and failing miserably while her twin taps away at a phone. I make a note to have Vanessa discuss appropriate mentorship with her sister later. It will stick better than if it came from me. James is simply sitting back, enjoying a tall glass of beer and smiling.

My Fool, my Rooks, my Bishops, and a Pawn nearing promotion. I don't consider the missing Queen, the Knights that went with her, or how I can't bring all of my pieces to the table lest someone become suspicious. Brad's antics are useful for convincing the masses, yes, but damned if it isn't difficult to handle a subordinate who can't be seen in daylight.

I come to the head of the table and tap against my glass three times with a conjured knife. The conversation ceases, and I take a moment to appreciate the benefits of being King. Then I commence my speech.

Just because the holiday is worthless doesn't mean it isn't exploitable.

"In 2010, there were a dozen different parahuman gangs skittering around. We were the only light in the darkness, the only one standing between the good people of the city and the subhuman scum who plagued them..."

* * *

"The holidays are the fucking worst," Sophia snarls, stomping through the snow like it owes her money. I hold back a comment about cursing in public while I struggle through the snow myself. Even with warped space extending my steps it takes forever to get through the loosely-packed powder. I can only imagine how much of a pain it is without anything to mitigate the distance. That, and she wants to vent. It's eleven at night and no one in their right mind is out and about so I don't bother to report it. No harm, no foul.

Also, she's not wrong. The holidays _are_ the worst.

Everyone with powers is a little fucked up in the head. Older people _loooove_ to talk about how it gets better with age, about how a healthy social life is all part of the Wards package. Your child will be guaranteed good therapy if they want it, and they'll leave a happy and productive member of society!

"Gonna scout around," Sophia says, staring back at me, and I can feel the glare through the mask. I nod and she phases off, probably to inflict some gratuitous amount of violence on a mugger or something. I step up to a rooftop and keep an eye on her movement.

Happy and productive member of society. Please.

Most of the time, the gap between people who have a life outside of being a hero and those who don't is pretty small. Both of them work roughly the same number of hours, both of them value the law, and both of them are more or less functional at the workplace.

And then you take a look at who signs up for the Christmas shifts. Who doesn't leave the Rig or PRT headquarters on Thanksgiving. You check out who has unused vacation days because they don't have any family events to go to.

It's all the same people.

Armsmaster is the most obvious example. I'm not even sure I've heard of him sleeping anywhere that isn't the Rig, and if he does he can't possibly spend much time there. Miss Militia isn't much better but at least she has the excuse of not sleeping period. Shadow Stalker's shaping up to be another Armsmaster (I snort at the mental image that conjures up) and sleeps at the base.

That was an awkward conversation to have at three in the morning.

It didn't fix things between us. She's still a bitch most of the time, and I'm still trying to get past that and make friends with the only other girl on the team. But she's laid off on the family comments some. Probably hits a little too close to home.

"Hey, found some ABB," Sophia says over the coms. "Can you get over here before I engage?" I take two steps and cross three city blocks to end up next to her on a rooftop.

"Console, Vista and Shadow Stalker engaging..." I count quickly "Four, repeat, four members of the ABB."

"Kick some ass," Clockblockers says, and after that it's all elbows, fists and violence.

* * *

"Happy New Year, Alec!" I shout, setting off a popper and swallowing down some of the supermarket's finest twenty dollar champagne. Drinking at midnight is probably not a good way to deal with an incipient Thinker headache but it's probably not the worst thing to do.

"Happy New Year, Tats," he responds, eyes never leaving the TV screen. "Mind handing me a glass of the bubbly?"

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" I ask dryly, pouring some of the booze into a red solo cup. Yes, he is. On the other hand, the body-stealing sociopath is probably the most experienced alcoholic out of the four of us. That, and hey, criminals. We can break the law like that.

I leave the cup on the minitable next to his arm and sit down on the other side of the couch. Ugh, I should be _doing_ something. Playing solitaire, trying to screw over Coil, anything. On the other hand, said murderous-villain boss has told me in no uncertain terms that he'll need my power later this week and not to push it too far. So that means no real work, and why not go out and party on a holiday? See what happens, have some fun, spend time with your friends. Problem: I only know one other person who I could conceivably spend New Year's with, and Brian has made it very clear that he's spending any and every holiday with family only.

Nice and heartwarming, with the side effect of leaving me in the company of Heartbreaker-lite this fine and freezing evening.

I'm about halfway through my second cup when a controller gets tossed in front of me. It takes a moment for me to put together the clues, and I look towards Alec.

"Wanna kill some noobs?" he asks.

Fuck Coil. I pick up the controller and let my power go to work.

* * *

Last year we didn't stay up to watch the fireworks together. Or the year before that. It kind of lost meaning, missing a person, and the resolutions we made before Mom died were always tied to things between the family.

Dad would always resolve to fix the house up, Mom would resolve to be home more often, and I would resolve to help out more. Dad usually kept his promise, as did Mom, but I...

I was twelve.

I think about what resolutions we'd make now. Dad would resolve to be home more often, maybe. Maybe it would pressure him into finally fixing that front step, or asking about school more. I don't know.

Mom would probably resolve to always be in our hearts or something.

What do I want to change in this new year?

In three days, I'll be back at school. Emma has cooled off in the weeks leading up to break, so if the trend stays I won't really need to do anything there. Maybe I can make some friends now. Sit down with someone at lunch and have a conversation about books or...

I resolve to get a new friend and find a hobby. Besides books.

I give up trying to sleep and pull out a book. Something old and Russian, to put me right off.

The Trial should do it.


	2. Thanksgiving

"Colin."

"Yes?" I respond, setting aside the lathe and turning to face Hannah. She's leaning against the doorframe, face unmasked and serious.

"We're having dinner. Would you care to join us?" she asks, tilting her head towards the cafeteria.

"I'll pass," I respond, already turning back to the battery I was working on. Not an ideal solution to capacity problems, but the review board limits the amount of nuclear fusion allowed in a single Tinker device. Foolishness, but we all have to play by the rules.

"Do you know what day today is?" Hannah asks, her voice changing. Odd.

"Should I?" I respond, eye blinking through the interface on my glasses to the calendar. November 25th. No scheduled maintenance, nor is it the birthday of any member of the Protectorate. Hmm. A web search, perhaps?

"Happy Thanksgiving Colin," she says before the page can load. Ah. There's a silence. Long enough that the bot Dragon wrote sends a buzz to my watch indicating it's awkward in nature. "I'll see you in the cafeteria at 6:30," she says, departing with a wave.

I lean back in my chair, looking at the half-finished project, then at the clock. Enough time to finish the battery but not enough to finish it and bake the peanut butter cookies I provide in lieu of a proper dish.

Hannah wouldn't care about the missing sweets. Assault would crack a joke, and Battery would slap him for it. Velocity understands duty, and the responsibilities that come with it. Dauntless wouldn't challenge me. He's too guilty over the difference in our respective work efforts. Triumph wouldn't feel comfortable bringing it up.

I sigh and take a moment to think about why I'm working. It's a question Dragon likes to ask, and it's helped before. The battery won't tip the scales in a fight with Lung but it could be the difference between lasting an extra minute and being forced to retreat.

I think about what Hero would do.

Another minute ticks by and I put a cover on the exposed components. I probably wouldn't get it done in time anyway.

That doesn't stop me from sprinting to the kitchen. The oven there is never precise enough, and a few tweaks could get it just right.

* * *

The Schmidts brought a twenty pound turkey and three gallons of cider. Too much for a group of five. Six, with Aster, but she won't help make up the difference

"Thank you for cooking, Dorothy," Kayden says, grunting as she helps haul the tupperware packed to the bursting with side dishes to the kitchen. "I would've helped, but things have been a little hectic at the office," she explains, dropping the last of the sweet potatoes on the counter and sighing in relief.

"It's the least we could do," Dorothy says back, smiling. She's wearing too much make up for a holiday, with silver bracelets and diamond earrings. "It means a lot to us that you're inviting us into your house, and we just wanted to make sure it went right," she adds, with Geoff nodding along behind her, dressed in a three piece suit that's a far better cut than a dinner asks for.

There's a moment of silence before Justin claps his hands together and smiles. "Well then," he says, looking at Geoff, then me. "While the womenfolk start reheating things, let's watch some football!" he exclaims, walking to the couch, snagging the remote and thumbing buttons until the game comes on. His face lights up and he stares, attention rapt, muttering under his breath about plays and tackles. Geoff sits down in a recliner staring forward blissfully, eyes on the screen and not seeing anything.

It's times like this that I miss Brad's callous, good-natured assholishness, or Cassie's awkward attempts at conversation with someone her age. Both are better than silence.

"Theo?" Kayden calls, and I snap my head towards her. She has an awkward look on her face halfway between apprehension and pity. "Would you mind calling your father and telling him we won't be making it?"

She doesn't want to call Max because she might be persuaded to come back. Because she knows she's weak. So she sends me to deliver the message, someone she thinks is already broken.

"Sure," I say, heading for the phone. Kayden's not wrong.

* * *

"Ames, you want a seat over here?" Vicky asks, temporarily taking her eyes off the modern bloodsport to stare at me questioningly. I look to the screen, where grown men crash into each other hard enough to give concussions, and then back to her, slowly shaking my head. I can never understand why soft-core violence with an 11-inch ball involved is appealing, but apparently people like watching men get into the equivalent of low-speed car accidents.

"Suit yourself," she says, already turning back. Something happens in the game, and she joins in a cheer with Mark, Neil and Crystal. Eric and I exchanges eye rolls before turning back to our own entertainment.

I'm not sure if it's the fact that we both play support roles or just random chance, but neither of us enjoy things that remind us of work. As a result, we always end up exchanging book recommendations instead of complaints whenever we meet outside of the family business and conspire to keep our antisocial tendencies well hidden from the rest of the family when at all possible.

It's a wonderful mutually detrimental relationship that neither of us are interested in sacrificing.

"Dinner's ready!" Sarah calls from the kitchen. There are more than a few grumbles from the couch but they get up and move to the table with all the haste a pair of fliers and a mid-tier Brute can generate. Eric and I sigh but bookmarks go in and we move to the dining room as well.

Sarah sits at the head, her family running down the right and ours down the left. Vicky and Neil compete to see who can load up on more sweet potatoes and turkey while the rest of us get sane portions as well as servings of vegetables. I eye the starch on her plate enviously as I chew on some asparagus. Part of her power has to be her metabolism because there's no way a regular person could eat that and still have an hourglass figure.

Carol and Sarah talk about Neil and Mark, who interject occasionally to defend a decision or provide color commentary. Eric, Crystal and Vicky talk school, asking for my opinion on something or other whenever they remember I exist. I respond politely and simply take in the cozy feeling of good food and better company.

It won't last. In a few weeks, Carol and I will be back to a frosty detente, Mark will have a bad day, and the Pelhams will be back to struggling to pay for college, basic utilities, and being a superhero.

But for now?

"Pass the sweet potatoes, would you?"

* * *

"Taylor?"

"Yeah Dad?" I reply, eyes on my food as I fork some more turkey into my mouth. It's dry. Neither of us made gravy. That was Mom's job, and we both forgot. Neither of us are complaining.

"Do you want to," he's struggling for the words, "Maybe go to the cemetery some time?"

I look at him over the rather frugal Thanksgiving meal and unused plate.

"We don't have to," he clarifies, raising his hands placatingly, bits of mashed potato clinging to his silverware. "But I think it might be nice to just..." he trails off.

"Get some closure," I offer, and he nods. I take a deep breath, then let it out.

He's not wrong. It would be nice to just talk with Dad for a bit. But then I'd think about talking about school, and lately things have been cooling off. Not stopping, but the intensity is dropping. Not enough to be over, but enough to hope.

"How about in the spring?" I ask. "When it's a little warmer," I clarify. By then maybe I can have a guilt-free conversation. Dad puts on a smile and nods.

"April, then."


	3. Pirates

"Why'd you do it, White Rose? Why!?"

Armsmaster could only look on in despair as the Rig slowly sank into the ocean. Years of work. Millions of dollars. Dozens of enhanced coffee makers. All gone in the space of minutes. The rest of the Protectorate, nay, the rest of the parahumans in the city lay defeated around him. While her mental state could be best shown by a particularly thin slice of Swiss cheese, it was universally accepted that White Rose was a monster in a fight. When she finally broke and started actively going after people, it was only a matter of time before the powers in the city pooled their resources to take her out. The Triumvirate had refused to send aid, citing a "lack of need."

How blind they had been. How blind they ALL were.

"I'm glad you asked, Armsmaster," the crazed cape said, voice far too calm and too quiet to fully drown out the sound of snapping bone. "But first, let me ask _you_ something: how frequently do your plans go right?"

The silence was deafening.

"What?" he asked.

"You heard me. How frequently do things play out like you expect them to?" White Roses waits for a few moments longer before turning her head to the side and pointing to Kaiser. "What about you? How frequently can you get what you want?"

"I'm not sure what precisly you're asking about," the nazi said before yelping in pain as a needle of bone punctured his arm. "It's about fifty-fifty!"

"And you, Coil?" White Rose said, turning to the thin man in a body suit. "How good are _you_ at forethought?"

"Every time but this one," he hissed. When White Rose lifted a hand menacingly, the hiss became a plea. "I do not boast. Literally every plan I've actually tried to execute has succeeded."

"He's telling the truth," Armsmaster said, voice slightly surprised, interfering before the villain's brains could be pureed. "My halberd indicates that he believes that statemnet to be true."

White Rose lowered her hand. "Impressive. To both of you," she said, gesturing to the now-bleeding nazi. "You managed to have most things go your way. Please, tell me how frequently you think _I_ get what I want?" A note in her tone kept anyone intelligent from answering.

"Fuckin' never?" Skidmark said. Hookwolf's hand flew to Rune's eyes, just as Miss Militia's flew to Kid Win's, preparing to shield their innocent souls from the sight of death.

"You're damn right!" White Rose shouted, throwing up her hands in ecstasy. "Finally, someone understands!"

Another silence.

"What?" Velocity asked. When the rest of the Protectorate members looked and him incredulously, he shrugged. "I mean, I think it's literally impossible to get _nothing_ you want."

"You'd think so," White Rose said dangerously, walking to the crippled speedster. "Let me tell you what my past few years have been like."

"I lost my mother. Complete accident, could've happened to anyone. Dad goes a little sad and stops being a good dad, so I go off to summer camp. I come back and my best friend has dropped me for some _bitch_ who can't read a damn book to save her life and won't stop ranting about predators and prey. _Then_ I get powers-" most of parahumans present shiver, save for a certain Ward and two members of the Protectorate "-but does that solve shit? Nope. Instead, I go out, trying to be a hero, thinking I'll ruin into some nice, unambiguous criminals, like Nazis, sex slavers, or drug dealers."

"Drug dealers are drug users who end up in the business to feed their own addiction you dumb cunt!" Skidmark interrupted, ignoring the rapid hand movements from Squealer. "They're fuckin' criminals mainly becuase of unlucky personal shit, while pimps stem from systemic/societal factors related to treatment of women and nazis are more likely to come from well-balanced families with beliefs entrenched by generations of tradition! Don't compare those three groups of scum-cucking shits!"

"Your reasonable-sounding points are not important!" White Rose shouted, waving her hand aside. "All I wanted was a little catharsis! Instead, I got a fight with Lung, which I tried to run away from. Then he tried to chase me down, I had to kill him, and would you look at that, apparently the ABB have _another_ psychopathic cape that wants to kill everyone! No flowershops for White Rose! No peace! No stepping away..."

"You could have joined the Protectorate and been transferred," Dauntless interrupted before receiving a boot to the face.

"Only interrupt with sensible points!" White Rose said. "Where was I? Ah, yes, Bakuda. After dealing with her, maybe, just maybe, I could've expect a little peace. But _noooooooooo_ , instead, on my opening day, where I'd finally have a chance to make some honest money, what happens!?"

"Leviathan," Vista whispered, staring with entirely too much admiration at the bone-covered cape. "You caught him with a pillar of bone, forced dozens of capes to work together, and sent the Endbringer to Pluto!"

"But not before it destroyed my shop," White Rose said, her gentle whispers nearly inaudible under the sudden spike in broken bones. "No, there can be no happiness for White Rose. None at all."

Another silence, punctuated by the growth of bared spines over the restraints on the nearby capes, who suddenly became far more concerned with the mental state of their captor.

"That," White Rose said, breaking the silence, which suddenly was silent, the crack of breaking bones dying off entirely, "is why I've decided to become a pirate."

The shock in the room was palpable.

"What." This time it was Clockblocker speaking up. Dean noted the absolute lack of emotion in his teammate.

"A pirate," White Rose stated, in the peculiarly calm tone only the truly insane ever achieve. "I won't have to obey any laws, I can go wherever I want, and no one can mess up my plans if I don't have any." She nodded. "Actually, that was the reason I gathered you all here today."

"What." Clockblocker's tone had not changed. Dean noted a spike of _pure fury_ in his teammate.

"You see, I want to be a Pirate Queen. For that, I need a crew," White Rose said, as if talking to a child. "So, who would like to stop planning things out and live a life on the high seas, away from machinations, clean living, and disappointment?"

"Fuckit, I'm down," Hookwolf said, shredding his restraints and standing up. He turned to Stormtiger and Cricket, who's own manacles of bone had detatched. "Guess we're pirates now."

"Will I get to kill people?" Brandish asked, drawing shocked looks from the rest of New Wave.

"Sure, why not?" White Rose said.

"Bye kids," the ex-lawyer said, transforming into a ball and escaping her shackles. "Amy, I never loved you-" "called it" "-and you're too much work Vicky."

"Can I join?" Vista asked, drawing faces of surprise and horror from the Protectorate members and a shake of the head from White Rose.

"I'm afraid not," White Rose said. "You have to be fifteen or older to join the crew of the _Broken Dreams_." The pout Vista leveled could have earned her a Master rating, but the Changer was resolute. "No one younger than me may join."

"Well, if you use the right pronouns, I'm in," Circus said, earning a betrayed look from Coil. They shrugged. "I see the way the wind is blowing."

"Anyone else?" White Rose asked. When the silence stretched on she shrugged. "Ah well, I wanted at least one Tinker, but a crew of five will do for now. Maybe I'll pick up a few more people later. Onwards, mates!" she finished, walking towards the shoreline, bone stretching out in front of her and forming a galleon of epic proportions, with a crying skeleton as the figurehead. "All aboard!"

Once the six capes were on the massive ship, water began to spew from below as massive paddles of bone clove the water and propelled the gargantuan craft. Sheets of bone weave unfurled from three separate masts, so fine as to appear like paper, and caught the wind. Soon, the ship was out of sight, and with it White Rose, now known as the Calcium Queen, Duchess of the Seven Seas, departed from Brockton Bay.

After a few moments of silence, one brave soul asked the question on everybody's mind.

"How the _fuck_ are we supposed to get out of these?"


	4. Valentine's Day

It is a day off. Lung grants one per year, which is enough. The sun begins to rise. Its light warms the skin and the path to the apartment.

Four rooms in total. A bedroom, small, with a twin mattress and plain sheets. Enough to sleep on, not enough to soften. An armory, where my equipment rests. A bathroom, containing unscented hair products and soap. The smallest things matter when trying to kill the more dangerous Thinkers.

My kitchen, well furnished and well stocked, with a small stone tablet. I run my fingers over it before I do anything else.

A twist in my heart, unpleasant and bitter, but a true feeling.

First is the chocolate. 72% cacao, diced. Darker than most can stand. Four ounces for the recipe, four for the cook. I bite into a piece.

Something familiar stirs within me.

Half a cup of heavy cream for the recipe. Three servings of umeshu for the chef in the first hour, another one every hour afterwards. The sweet/sour flavor burns the first time, as well as the second. On the last I remember to breathe out while drinking and the liquor hits my stomach, a line of not-quite warmth.

It's not the alcohol moving the thing within me. It's the taste.

The cream goes into a saucepan to heat. Once scalded, it is whisked with the chocolate until smooth. I add vanilla to soften the flavor, the scent filling the otherwise empty room.

Something moves. Warmth.

The molds come out, twelve different flowers. Each is filled, and at the end I swallow the unpoured mixture.

More of something. Light.

Each treat gets a unique topping. The spider lily gets cherries, the hydrangea a blueberry, the daffodil a coconut curl, color to color.

The faint memory of laughter, mocking in a kind way. Lightness, gossamer thin.

The chocolates are left to cool in the refrigerator. It is eight oh seven. Two fifteen and this place will be empty.

Clean the knives and guns. Check the pins on the grenades. Wash. Dress, passing over the costume for a black suit, expensive but not ostentatiously so. Steel cufflinks, white shirt. A stiletto in one sleeve, a small pistol and one additional clip of ammunition under one arm. Simple black shoes. Unremarkable overall save for the wide and worn orange tie, faint pink butterflies crossing up and to the right. I knot it carefully, gentle with the fabric.

The corner of a smile. The flash of something bright. Warmth.

The rest of the time is spent waiting and thinking of nothing in particular, and I drink a glass of liquor every hour, warmed up enough to savor it. I eat the plum once the bottle is empty.

With every swallow, a twinge. On and off. It escapes before it can be examined. The plum tastes like guilt.

At two the chocolates come out. The next fifteen minutes are spent packaging them into a wooden box, three by four, small enough to be carried in one hand. The stone tablet goes under the other arm, opposite the gun.

A trip to the florist's shop. An arrangement of cypress and roses join the chocolates. A quick call to the gang and a car comes by ten minutes later, stops to take its passenger, and leaves for the shrine.

It is small, barely more than an archway and a hut. It is enough. The keeper accepts the bills with silent thanks and places a sign over the boundary.

Inside, I light incense and kneel. I place the tablet on the altar, next to the chocolates and another bottle of plum liquor. I open my wallet, take out a photo and leave it standing against the bottle.

The strongest twist of the day. Something wet falls down my face. I taste salt. More twists.

I eat the chocolates, one by one, savoring the flavor of each before washing my mouth with a sip of water to cleanse my palate.

With every taste, the twist straightens out.

By the end I almost remember the face in the photo.

Almost.

* * *

Sometimes I can't believe my husband is an adult.

"Ethan... why?" I ask, staring at the wicker basket. Inside is a dog roughly the size of two fists. I think most people would find it adorable.

"Because if you hold still and I do this," he says, picking up the dog and placing it on my shoulder, "I get to see a puppy on Puppy." He smiles at that, big and dumb and goofy.

I look him in the eye, studiously ignoring the warm little licks at my ear. "Do you actually want a pet or did you just want to make that terrible pun?" I can't tell if he's serious yet.

He nods, still smiling. "Do you want a pet?" No, it's a joke.

I grab the dog off my shoulder and put it back in the basket. "As nice as this is, I don't really want to take care of a dog." Full-time heroes in a city with an unreasonable number of aggressive capes don't have enough hours in the day to take care of pets. A shame, honestly. I like dogs.

Ethan shrugs. "Good, I borrowed it from Michael. Would hate to have to ask the super-secret black-ops agents that we're not supposed to know about to 'disappear' him." As we walk out the front of the Protectorate HQ he leaves the basket on the counter with a small envelope attached. "Make sure Michael gets his dog back!" he yells as the door closes. I roll my eyes as I fish for our car keys. And find them missing.

"Damn, do you have my keys Ethan?" I ask, looking up at him. He pats at his pockets, face going from hopeful to concerned to disappointed.

"I do not," he says, carefully enunciating each word. I resist the urge to slap him. He lost his own keys a week ago and we've been carpooling ever since. Saves on gas, but this is the natural consequence of entrusting small objects to a man who used to crash cars for a living.

"We'll have to borrow a car from the lot until the keys turn up," I mutter, heading back to the building. A short explanation later and we're perusing our options.

"No Ethan, we cannot drive a PRT van with a mounted foam cannon," I state plainly, walking past him staring at the turret in awe. _Men_. "Come, this sedan looks nice." Nondescript and small enough that parking shouldn't be a problem.

"What about that one?" he asks, tearing his eyes away from a cross between a helicopter and a jet to point at a shadowed corner.

"What about it?" I ask, moving over to examine it. A sports car of some kind in silver and blue.

"It's a Lamborghini Murcielago," he says, eyes glazing over. "6.5 liter V-12 engine. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds. Here," he points to a small marking on the driver side mirror, "You can see the mark. That means they upgraded it with an automatic twelve gear transmission and Tinkertech materials, dramatically increasing the mileage."

"And the insurance premiums on it must be through the roof," I finish, already done looking at it. "We're taking the vehicle we can afford to wreck." What is it with men and cars? They get you from point A to point B. In costume, both of us can move faster than almost anything with four wheels. Maybe it's just about the amount of money involved.

"What, you don't trust us to keep a car intact?" he asks, dutifully walking up next to me and shortening his steps to match my pace.

"I trust that things will go wrong at some point," I answer, sliding into the driver's seat of the sedan while Ethan falls into the passenger's. "And both of us could conceivably use a car as a projectile, so I would prefer the car be one that we won't feel too bad about losing."

We're about halfway home and bickering over what to eat for dinner when Ethan's phone rings. He holds up a finger, pausing the conversation. I bring my eyes back to the road, keeping an eye out for less sensible people. No one's a good driver but some are worse than others.

"Puppy, wanna eat something nice?" he asks out of nowhere.

"Depends on how nice," I respond, turning smoothly. "Will we have to dress up?" I can't comprehend how some of the other heroes fight in heels. Yes, they may have ranged abilities. Yes, you can stab a person with one. But all of them have to have a secondary Thinker power to stay standing in the middle of a cape fight.

"Pretty nice," he answers. "Apparently Alyss and Robin changed plans last minute and decided to spend the night in. Thing is, the tickets to the show they wanted to go to are non-refundable."

"Shame," I say, mentally screaming at the fender bender in front of us. Traffic grinds to a halt and I lean back against my seat.

"Anyway, the ticket covers a three-course meal, a showing of Twelfth Night and a boat trip. You wanna try it out?" he asks, thumb poised.

I shake my head. "Nah, it's been a long day. I just want to relax and go to bed." The ABB have quieted down and the E88 haven't been as violent but that doesn't mean there isn't still the occasional clash that wrecks half a city block.

That, and getting launched through a wall by Krieg _hurt_.

Ethan shrugs. "Guess it's a night in for us as well then," he says, typing away a response. A whoosh heralds the message's departure and we finally get through the snarl of nearly-parked cars. Thank God.

I open up the door to the apartment to be greeted with sight of rose petals. So. Many. Rose petals. A trail of them leads to the kitchen, snakes out to the bathroom, then doubles back on itself to go to the bedroom. Some Aleph music that I don't usually listen to in public starts playing, and a pile of chocolate-covered orange peels rests in a bowl by the door next to a rather nice profile of me in costume without the mask.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh mournfully. "It's the fourteenth, isn't it?"

"Yup," Ethan says, walking by me, grabbing an orange peel, and popping it into his mouth.

"I forgot," I answer, not opening my eyes. So _this_ is what being the oblivious one feels like. "The puppy was actually for me, wasn't it?" Did he buy a dog because I _might_ have been interested in one?

"Yeah, but Michael actually does want a dog," Ethan starts, heading over to the kitchen and pulling an apron over his head. "I promised to let him have the one I picked out if you decided not to keep the fuzzball." He pulls out a bag of meat, two pans, and bottle of wine.

"The car too?" I ask, grabbing a few candied peels of my own and sinking into an armchair facing the kitchen. Sometimes I really do underestimate him. That's usually not such a good thing. Usually.

"Loaned by the dealer, who worked with me back in the day." I begin to get up. "He's out now," Ethan assures me, and I sit back down to the sound of meat frying as a steak makes contact with hot iron. "But he didn't say no when I asked if I could borrow it to test the waters. If you didn't want it, he'd get it back at the end of the day. No real risk."

I shake my head and chew on a treat. Citrus and cocoa. Delicious.

"And the dinner?" I ask. That one might have been tempting, actually. It was also the one that would've been the most difficult to set up. A play about love on Valentine's Day? Seats would've sold like nothing else.

"Sent the tickets to Alyss and Robin, who won't be having a night in, as a matter of fact," he answers.

"When did you start planning this?" I ask.

"Last year," he answers, not missing a beat. "I am _very_ good at planning things out."

"Yes you are," I murmur softly, looking around at the positively sickening levels of romance that surround me. "Even when it's not reciprocated."

"Eh," he shrugs. "Not the point. If you didn't want a dog, a new car, or a night on the town, so be it. We can spend it here, eating food we know is bad for us while watching shitty movies, then relax in the tub until we wrinkle into raisins." He turns away from the stove for a moment, eyes meeting mine across the room. "That sound good to you?"

I nod. "Sounds perfect."


	5. Fairy Godmother

"Heya, are you a superhero?"

I turn towards the new voice. Then I look down. It's a small girl, no older than seven, with pigtails and an adorable gap-tooth grin. I blink slowly behind my mask. How does one respond to that question?

"I certainly hope so," I respond. "Umm, where are your parents?" I ask carefully. Who on earth lets their child near a non-Protectorate cape under any circumstances? Seems like a recipe for disaster.

"Oh, she's coming up the hill now. Hi mommy!" Or she could've run away from her parent and simply not understand how dangerous parahumans are. That also works. I follow the girl's gaze a see a harried-looking black woman who is sprinting up the hill towards her daughter.

"There you are, Clara! Oh my god, I was so worried, why did you go running away from me like that?" she asks, kneeling down to fuss over her daughter, brushing her hair away from her face and staring, looking for any harm.

"I wanted to see the lady in armor!" Clara says innocently, pointing to me. Little brat, trying to avoid trouble by blaming the convenient distraction. The mother stops her examination of her daughter turns to look. I offer a wave. Harmless enough.

"Um, who are you?" the mother asks. "I don't think I've seen you around." She stands up, brushing grass off her knees and looking down at me. I'm not sure I like being looked down on.

"I'm White Rose," I answer, standing up as well, now towering over the woman. She takes a step back and I feel guilty. Why do I care about dominance games with some random person I don't even know the name of? "What's your name?" I ask, extending a hand, softening the corners and edges of the armor, trying to make appear less threatening.

"... Alice Ladenna," she responds carefully, taking my hand. I give it a light shake, being careful not to squeeze too hard. Don't want to scare anyone.

"I saw you give a guy some flowers earlier, can you make flowers?" Clara says, unwilling to be ignored for more than five seconds. I look down into a pair of bright blue eyes, filled with wonder.

"I can," I respond slowly. An idea strikes me. "I can also make other things." Something new. I start with some rose stems, removing thorns as an afterthought. Don't want to scrape a little girl's head. I weave them together, forming a circular braid. After a moment, I make it a little smaller. Make it sit a little higher on her head. I bud six buttercups, spaced evenly around the circlet. Clara squeals with delight, and I grin behind my mask. I snap the connection, using her delight to cover the pain, pull the snapped end into the circlet to smooth it out, before kneeling to place it on her head.

"Do you like your crown?" I ask.

"It's AWESOME!" Clara yells, and I wince a little behind my mask, momentarily off-guard. As a result, I freeze when she hugs me, both of her arms circling my neck. I stay stock still, not sure where to put my hands. She lets go and smiles. "Thank you, Rosie!" she says, running back down the hill.

Her mother chases after her, already forgetting about me.


	6. Mother's Day

I try. I really think that's all I can say.

Max doesn't take no for an answer, but he'll accept delays. He'll accept that Mother's Day means special time between Mom and the kids, and while he could still fight over it it's not worth the effort. A concession, calculated for maximum emotional impact, with low cost and high payoff. Theo's going to have to spend more time with him in the future, and when Aster gets old enough I'll have to send her to him on Father's day.

But that's later. Not now.

"Lunch is served," Theo says, pulling out a chair for me. I smile at him and take a seat as he starts ladling out Mac n' Cheese. It's the kind that comes out of a box, but he's mixed in tuna and a few veggies, even if he tries to avoid putting too many of the later onto his own plate. Aster's already asleep, so it's just the two of us, eating quietly as the rain comes down outside.

The silence... it's bad. Theo doesn't start conversations if he can at all avoid it, and I still see too much of Max in him to try and engage. Too much of Heith too, which only complicates things further. When I do manage to get a few words out of him, they're passive things, the result of not enough being himself.

He tries too, I think. He tries to keep me happy by being as low-maintenance as possible, by doing his chores without complaining. He never complains, never asks for anything more than what I give.

I think he's afraid of pushing too far and losing what little shelter from Max he gets.

"Do you want to see a movie later?" I ask tentatively, pushing around some of the food on my plate, looking at him and forcing a smile. It's rough, but I want to feel it. I want to feel like he's my child, partially because he deserves at least one good parent and partially because he _gets it_. Max tried to scrub away every part of him that didn't meet his standards, but Theo never forgot who Max was. What he was like.

We're the only two people who both know the real Max. The one that's neither Kaiser or CEO Anders.

The one that breaks people.

Theo finishes swallowing before he answers.

"Is there one that you want to see?" he asks. More passiveness. More evidence of Max's worm.

"Not really," I answer. "There was that one film about Churchill that looked interesting though."

Theo looks at me and almost smiles. I smirk back. Maybe it's strange for someone with... my history to enjoy films about World War Two. Maybe it makes sense. Regardless of whether it's self-hatred or glorification, I spent a lot of time with the material in college and even now try to keep up with the literature.

"That sounds nice," Theo answers slowly and I feel myself warm up inside.

"After dinner?" I ask. He nods and we go back to our food, the silence a little easier.

* * *

There's a knock at the door. I roll out of bed, carefully palm the pipe, and look through the peephole. A good one, installed by a professional, not like the kind on hotel doors. After I catch a glimpse of dyed hair, I sigh and let the weapon lean against the wall as I undo the locks, then twist the knob and push out.

"Hey bro," Aisha says, brushing past me and into the nearly-empty apartment. "Oooh, this looks empty. When're you going to fill it up?" I sigh. Aisha, an endless font of energy and headaches.

"Waiting on the furniture," I answer. "Why're you here?" As far as I know, the boss hasn't planned anything for next few days, but if Aisha's going to be playing runaway again-

"Mother's Day," she says, hopping onto the island in the kitchen and looking around. "So, you got any eats?"

I pinch my nose and close my eyes, pushing down the first rush of irritation.

Right.

Mother's Day.

"It's still just an inflatable mattress and some art. The refrigerators and dishwasher is coming next week, so no silverware, plates or food," I tell her, grabbing my jacket off the coat rack and shrugging into it. "Let's go out."

"Gotcha," Aisha says, nodding twice and heading towards the door. I bar the door, a fleece in one hand. She scoffs, rolls her eyes, and puts it on, the front left unzipped. I concede the point and we start the long walk to Chong's.

Dad's a functional adult. That's about all there is to him. He trains, he trains other people, and that's what he knows. If Aisha started acting up with him he'd hit back and he wouldn't even realize why it was wrong. I try not hate him for it. He learned it from his Dad, and it was a different time.

It doesn't make the bruises easier to handle.

Somehow, some _way_ , Mom is worse. I still have no idea what was going through Dad's head when he decided to try and hook up with her, or what she was on when she decided to go through with it. Dad can get through a day of work and only be called "aloof" or "distant." Mom can't hold a job for a week. She's a party girl that never grew up, and somehow she thinks she's fit to raise kids. Drugs during pregnancy, but a child will "bring out her nurturing side" and "get her clean, once and for all."

It'd be convincing if I hadn't heard the speech twice already.

Mom got a one concession in return for alimony. One day of mother/daughter bonding. Nevermind that Aisha wanted back with Mom like she wanted a hole in the head, nevermind that Mom only did it out of spite. The rules were that the two of us had to make our way to Mom's place and stay with her until six in the afternoon.

Fortunately, her lawyer fucked up. We had to be there until six, from whenever. So Aisha suggested we take a walk there. A nice, long, senic walk, where we stopped for lunch. And maybe ice cream.

We get to Chong's in the middle of the rush. Intentionally. It takes half an hour for us to get a table, and another fifteen minutes for a harried-looking waitress to bring us silverware and water.

"You should ask her out," Aisha says, flicking through the menu as the waitress walks away. We'll spend twenty minutes deciding on the same thing we always get, eat for long enough for the food to go cold, then ask for dessert. Depending on how peckish Aisha is, we can drag the meal out for four hours.

"And you're suddenly my dating counselor at the tender age of twelve?" I ask, reading a menu I memorized long ago. Normally, Aisha's apt to run away from anything more boring than a fistfight, but I can trust her to stay here today.

"You're eighteen bro. Prime of your life, muscly as fuck-"

"Language," I interrupt. Aisha gives me a flat look I pretend not to notice.

"Muscly as _freak_ and also not ugly. Seriously, why no girl?" I sigh and turn the page.

I don't tell her the truth. That Mom's such a bad example that I don't want to try with anyone who doesn't have their shit together. That I'm so focused on making sure that _she_ has a chance that it's practically a full-time job. That my actual full-time job is being a super villain, and how that limits my dating pool to Tats and Rachel, neither of who register as girlfriend material.

"No one's caught my eye," I answer. Aisha's face lights up.

"Well, Stacy's just broken up with Tristan and she's got this sort of 'angry-teacher' look going that seems right up your alley."


End file.
